Behind The Bar
by dirtytalkingjasper
Summary: Behind the bar, Alice feels safe at work, but one night when the music fades, everything changes.


**PLEASE NOTE NEW DATES AS OF AUGUST 20, 2011**

**Public Voting /Judge Anon. Voting**

Sept. 3 - Sept. 17, 2011

**Winners Announced**

by Sept. 19, 2011

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><p><strong>Behind The Bar<strong>

Working in a honky-tonk bar? Well, it fucking sucks.

I wouldn't be employed here if it wasn't for my cousin Emmett. He married my best friend Rosalie right out of college and begged me to come work for them so that I could pay off my student loans quicker.

Apparently going to nursing school was a little more costly than I anticipated.

Even in our small town, there aren't any nursing jobs. But I spend my waking hours filling out applications for major cities all over the country. With each rejection, I send out another application to another city, hoping one of these days, I will get a yes.

So here I am, behind this sticky bar, serving beer after beer, wearing the standard black logoed bar shirt, that I've managed to style in my own fashion by cutting the neck to show off my chest and tying the bottom in a knot on my back, paired with the tightest black skinny jeans that I have. What? It helps with the tips.

It still fucking sucks.

"Al, we need some more BLD, can you grab a few cases from the back?" Rosalie asks as she sorts through our inventory.

"Yeah, sure."

I wipe my hands off and stick my rag in my back pocket before making my way to the back.

The minute I enter our large walk-in cooler my nipples harden.

That's the other thing about working in this particular honky-tonk bar.

Jasper Fucking Whitlock.

I'm going to be honest, cause let's face it, I tend to be blunt, I'm hornier than a sailor that's back on land after five years at sea.

Jasper is the lead guitarist for one of the many bands that play here. He is more than a tall drink of water on a hot day, lean but toned, shaggy blond hair that usually pokes out from his cowboy hat. He wears black t-shirts and worn jeans that hang so low on his hips there should be a law against something that looks that sexy.

But the kicker…the boots. I bet he wears them every time he fucks.

Over the past six months his band has been working the shifts and making their way up the ranks to the number two spot for the bar. And for the past six months, I've watched as Jasper has flirted with everything with two legs and a whole between them, bedding most of them, all the while trying to flirt with me.

Fuck no, I'm no one's notch on a bed post.

But Jasper persists, trying different angles.

And even though I'm repulsed by his actions, I've never been more attracted to one person before.

My mind says no, when my body screams fuck yes!

So here I am in the walk in cooler, and my already over stimulated, over heated body instantly reacts.

I just wish Jasper could be here, suck on my nipples, and….

Traitor thoughts! Traitor body!

I grab three cases of beer, stack them up and haul out of the cooler.

After the rush, and all the music is quiet, I find myself cleaning the bar for the last time tonight. Rose is cleaning off the tables while Emmett is stacking all the chairs on top of them. One of the other employees, Charlotte is sweeping the floor before mopping.

The band is packing up, and I can feel a set of eyes on me.

Jasper.

He's been doing this lately over the last few weeks, since they got moved up to the steady number two slot. He sits on the stage at the end of the night, strumming his guitar, as the rest of the band slowly puts everything away.

And he's been alone at the end of the night, no skank hanging on him. In fact, I don't remember the last time I almost gagged at the end of the night, watching him tongue fuck some blond stick on the dance floor.

His eye's are on me, burning a hole on my skin. As much as I want to scream at him 'what the fuck do you want?', I don't. I just do my job, ignore him so I can go home and collapse.

"Hey, Brandon," Jasper calls from his spot on the stage. "You missed a fucking spot."

Everyone laughs a little at his comment, mostly his band mates. I end up flipping him off and keeping my eyes on my work.

Ten minutes later, I'm clocked out and headed to my car.

"Brandon," his voice calls out to me, again. "Hey, what's the fucking rush?"

I continue to walk.

He finally reaches me as I put my keys in the door of my car. "Wait." He moves to stand behind me, his right hand leaning against the roof of my car.

"For what, Whitlock? Test results?" I watch his hand as his fingers ball up into a fist. I know I've hit a sore spot.

"Alice," he sighs my name.

His voice is low, gritty, dripping with this lust that he carries for me.

A lust I can't afford to give into, to want.

"Jack, go home," I say through gritted teeth. Jack is a nickname I gave him in my head, and it slips out ever now and then. The boy has a love of whiskey.

His other hand moves and his rough fingers graze my arm, sending fire and heat coursing through my body.

I react instantly, pushing him back with my body, slinging open my door and encasing myself in the safety of iron and glass.

He watches, his face sullen as I drive off.

Saturday arrives and I wake up sometime around noon and pad out to check my mail. A thick envelope from Chicago General sits waiting.

"This can't be a rejection letter." I rip it open right there on the sidewalk.

The letter details my acceptance into their nursing staff. The hospital is expanding and is adding to their staff. The information enclosed gives me the details of my new job, giving me two weeks to pack-up and find my new life in Chicago.

As I show up for work, Rose calls me into Emmett's office. I have my resignation letter in my pocket and was planning on giving it to him at the end of the night, but I guess I'm going to get the chance now.

Sitting down on the couch, I feel nervous as Emmett starts to speak. "We have some music executives coming in tonight."

This is Emmett speak for make sure you are extra nice to any suits. Not that you can usually spot these scouts. But I give Emmett a smile and nod my head. He knows I'm a good employee, nice but feisty.

The letter is in my back pocket, burning a whole, but I decide to wait until later or until tomorrow before the bar opens. Emmett seems like he has enough on his mind without me telling him I'm quitting.

"And Alice, whatever the hell is going on with you and Whitlock, keep it for after hours."

"Emmett," Rose chides him.

"It's ok Rose," I tell her. "Emmett, for the record, Whitlock is trash. No matter who signs him, the wake of his jizz will always be there. I have no interest in be apart of that."

"Damn," Emmett mutters, shaking his head.

An hour later I'm safely behind the bar, serving customers, and listening to the band warm up.

Even from behind this wood, my safe place in this bar, I can feel his eyes on me.

I look up once, and find Jasper on stage, plucking his guitar, staring at me. There is something about his gaze tonight, but I can't put my finger on it.

Before I can make up my mind to flip him off or give him a smile, a couple comes up and is asking for Emmett.

"And two Stella's, please," the guy asks. As I grab two glasses and pull the draft I notice the handsome couple watching the stage, whispering quietly between the two of them.

The man is tall, lean, with copper hair. The woman is petite with dark brunette hair. She is tucked into his side, the two looking like they are perfectly matched for each other.

"Here you go. I'll go get Emmett for you." I assume that these two are the music executives that he warned me about, so I quickly make my way to the back where I know that Emmett is monitoring everything going on the stage.

"Your executives are here."

The band is finishing a song, and I can hear the lead tell the crowd that they are going to take a short break.

"Good, can you tell the guys to come over when they break?"

"Um, sure." I wait as they unplug and remove their instruments before moving off the stage.

"Emmett wants you guys to meet him over at the bar," I coldly tell them.

"Does that mean you're joining us?" Whitlock suggests.

I shake my head and turn to make my way back to the bar.

But before I take two steps, a hand has wrapped around my upper arm. My body is pulled back, the darkness of the side stage enveloping me.

"Jack, let me go," I sneer. I know that it's Whitlock. He would be the only one too stupid to touch me when he knows I hate him so much. I huff as I watch as the rest of his band mates walk off towards the bar.

"Alice," he whispers, as he pulls my body closer to his. He is right behind me, his hot breath, a hint of his favorite drink, grazing across my face. His hand remains the only part that is touching me, but the rest of my body is as close to being next to him as it can. The heat radiating off his body is setting fire to mine.

"Why?"

"You don't need me to answer that, Jack."

He growls, his face dipping, his nose teasing the skin on my neck. "Fuck, you smell good."

I hold in a small whimper.

"I bet you taste good too." He licks my neck. "Hmm, fucking sunshine."

I hold another whimper.

His hand that is holding me loosens in its grip, sliding down and falling to my hand, lacing my fingers.

"I wonder if all the parts of you taste this fucking good?"

He moves our locked hands back, twisting my arm and bringing them to rest at the swell of my ass, pulling my body closer, our hands trapped between my back and his chest.

"I wonder what color your nipples are. Are they a dusty pink like cotton candy or are they a tan like toffee? Hmm, makes me fucking hungry to find out."

A lust haze washes over me; my nipples harden at his words. I would love for him to find out, to taste every inch of me, but this is Whitlock, and this can never work.

Shaking my head, I whisper, "Jack, let me go." There are several meanings to my words, but for now, they only mean one thing.

Whitlock releases me and I flex my fingers as I step away, turning to see his face. "I'm sure your band needs you," I remind him.

Before he responds I turn and quickly make my way back, taking my place behind the bar, the solid piece of wood standing firming between me and Whitlock.

After the band talks to the couple and Emmett, they head back to the stage. Over the next hour and a half, they play like never before, all original songs, the crowd going wild, the band giving one of the best performances I've ever seen from them.

It's almost three a.m. when I find myself at my car. Whitlock hasn't said another word to me, just watching me from his place stage. Sometimes I would look, but would instantly turn away from his intense eyes.

I almost expected him to be here when I left, to be waiting to try and pickup from where he left off. And I sigh when I don't see him.

Why I'm disappointed, I don't really know.

On the drive home, I chastised myself for having wanton thoughts about Whitlock. He's probably got a record deal that he has signed by now, and a stick groping him. I shouldn't want his touch, his affection, the air always surrounding us saying otherwise.

I've got my chance to use my degree, to put my life on track and start living up to my potential, and so does he if I look at his music career.

My body is tired of fighting the want, the need for him. I'm just hoping I can ignore him long enough to make it to Chicago.

I make my way home, pack my car and head inside. Just as my keys and purse hit my kitchen counter, there is a soft knock at my front door.

Not knowing if it is some creep or stalker from the bar, I grab my cast iron skillet that sits on the stove and move to the front door. I flip on the porch light before peering through a small slip between the curtains on the side window.

"Whitlock!" I yell.

I fling the door open, skillet in hand and pulled up like I'm ready to swing.

He grins at me. Then he has the fucking nerve to eye me up and down.

"Alice," he says quietly before taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry I showed up here, but I wanted to talk to you outside of work."

"A phone call might be the better option, Jack."

He looks at me like he's a kid in trouble, his features of his face morphing from serious to innocent.

"I said I was sorry," he mumbles.

"Sorry or not, what do you want?"

He becomes serious again. "I told you, I wanna talk."

"Whitlock, it's three in the morning, what the hell do you want to talk about?"

"Your nipples."

"Pardon me?"

He takes a step closer, a foot inside the door. "Your. Nipples," he slowly says, his hands moving up, motioning to my traitor body part. A finger pokes out, almost touching before my brain starts to function again and I pull back, out of his reach.

He takes my movement as an invitation and moves in another step into the house. The creak on wood floor calls my attention, which is my downfall.

At the floor, I see his boots; those fucking well-worn cowboy boots that look like they have seen rough days and good times.

My eye move on their own, following his slim lean body up, his black jeans with the color faded around the knees, a section on his right hip where his guitar hangs and around his pockets. They are hung low, no belt, and there is a sinful sliver of his hard stomach peeking out just below his faded black t-shirt.

The floor creaks again as he takes another steps closer.

"Jack," I whisper.

He takes one last step, grabs my hips and lifts me up. My legs naturally wrap around his waist as my arm wind around his neck. He is breathing me in, hot gasps as his face rests within a kiss of mine.

"I knew you fucking wanted me."

I grab his hair, pulling his face away from mine. "You know you have a big fucking mouth?"

He holds me and moves our connected bodies to my living room, sitting down on the couch.

"You fucking love it," he says. "And after it licks and sucks every part of your delicious body, you are going to tell me you do."

There is no holding my whimper this time as it flows loudly and freely from my lips.

His lips start at my neck, a groan leaving him as his tongue darts out, licking my heated skin as he grabs my ass, grinding me against him.

His groan grows, turning into a growl. "Fuck you taste so good, I can't wait to suck your pussy dry."

"Oh, God."

He moves his hands to my shoulders, tugging at my t-shirt, working the tear that is already there. The t-shirt moves easily under his hand, the fabric ripping apart.

"Do you know how long I've wanted to taste you? To suck those perfect breasts? They taunt me every night from the stage, round and perky. Jesus, fuck, you don't have to wear a bra, you know that?"

He pulls harder, and my shirt is finally ripped completely open. He leans me back, one hand holding me at the base of my neck, the other moving to touch my breasts.

"Pink," he whispers. "Fuck, I knew it." His mouth sucks on one breast as his hand kneads the other.

After soaking my bra, removing it and lavishing my breasts with his mouth again, he lays me down on the couch, his hands never leaving me, and his mouth working down, all over every inch of my exposed skin.

"Fucking sunshine, cotton candy," he mumbles. "Sweetness, warmth, fuck, perfect."

I don't try to understand what he is trying to say, just enjoy what I've surrendered, my want for his touch. His affection outweighs any logical thought that this is the wrong thing to do.

"I want you Alice, I gotta fuck you. Are you ready for me to fuck you? Tell me you want me."

"Jack, I don't think I need to tell you, you know." The words leave my mouth in no more than a whisper. I don't even recognize my voice, the words foreign. But I can't deny him or my need any longer.

I watch as he stands, pulling his t-shirt off and throwing it on the floor. His chest and stomach are ripped, and my mouth waters thinking of all the things I could do with him. The sounds of his zipper opening, and then the rustle of his jeans falling to the floor and his cowboy boots, clunking on the wood.

He's commando, not that I'm surprised. He sees me taking in his form, his hard cock that is bouncing against his stomach. He grins and palms himself, wrapping his hand around and stroking.

"You like what you see, Alice? Would you like my cock to fill you, to give you every desire, to fuck spots that you never knew existed?"

My mind is blank, the cloud of lust fogging over any thought of responding.

He moves back to the couch, grabbing my jeans and removing them along with my boy shorts and shoes. I'm left on the couch, naked and speechless, unable to tell him that I want him, that I need him.

"Fucking perfect," he sighs. "Every inch of you."

He kneels on the floor and spreads my legs before diving into my core and taking a long lick.

He looks up at me as though he has tasted the best thing on the face of the earth, just before he growls and goes back to licking me. Adding his teeth and then his fingers, I come quickly.

"Never going to get enough," he mumbles.

I watch as he reaches back to his jeans and pulls a condom out and sheathes himself, giving on hard stroke. Within seconds he is on the couch, seated between my legs and ready to enter me.

My words still escape me so I nod, silently letting him know that I'm ready.

One stroke.

"Fuck!" I yell. He's big, stretching me as he hits the spot that I need.

"Damn you're so tight," he groans.

Heavy breathing fills the room as he pounds me into the couch. My legs wrap around his waist as he stays perched above my body, watching his cock fill me over and over again.

"Beautiful, fucking beautiful watching me in you. Your pussy, fuck, so damn good. You're spoiling me."

He lifts back and moves my legs to his chest, resting both on the right side of his head.

"Never going to be enough," he whispers.

His rhythm picks up, my hips moving to thrusts up with each stroke. His hand that isn't holding my legs moves between them, his rough fingers rubbing my clit.

As I plunge into a powerful orgasm, currents of pleasure washing through my body, he falls as well, filling the condom, and my name repeats over and over again quietly from his mouth.

I don't know how long it's been since he has finished ravishing me, but the sun hasn't come up, so it can't be more than a few hours at best. I'm on the couch, a blanket spread lightly over my still naked form.

I can hear the toilet flushing and the bathroom door open in the hallway, the soft glow of the light filtering into the darkness of my house.

I pull the blanket closer to my body and sit up and watch as he enters the living room and gets dressed. The room is silent and the tension that normally floats between us, is back, thicker than ever.

"Hey, Jack, you missed a fucking spot." I point to my lips, the one place that he hasn't placed his lips upon since coming into my house. My body is desperate for him again, and a kiss would send my over the edge that I'm teetering on in telling him to take me again.

He smirks, and the look tells me that he knows he has what he wants, what he's wanted and worked for, me. Slowly he bends over, dipping his head, his soft lips brushing gently at first against mine. My tongue licks, touching his delicately, inviting him to take more.

And he does; suddenly, fiercely, he is devouring me.

"Best fucking spot, ever," he says after leaving me breathless from our kiss.

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><p><strong>Public Voting Judge Anon. Voting**

Sept. 3 - Sept. 17, 2011

**Winners Announced**

by Sept. 19, 2011


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